We Dig In Our Heels, As Hard As We Can
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: AU. Western. Castiel is a union surgeon fresh from the civil war, Dean is a confederate soldier working as a prostitute in a dangerous town. Rated for sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, Castiel sincerely believes that he has a death wish.

Why else would he be here?

He thought that, after the war, after everything turned to crap and he spent months on that straw bed, almost dead, that this impulse would have been somehow taken from him. As if in mortifying his flesh he had proved himself worthy of being healed by God. As if, by making the sacrifices he'd made, he had bought himself the right to some peace.

Castiel isn't sure he believes in God anymore.

It's a thought that makes him want to die, because what is his life without that knowledge of a divine father? But he's been close enough to death to know not to wish for it.

The horse takes him as far as the saloon, from there, for appearances sake, he goes on foot. The regular cribs are around behind the saloon, stretching off towards the edge of down, a little line of wooden shacks containing whores and blankets and nothing else.

God it would be simple, if he were right in the head. He can imagine life being so easy.

He makes his way in the opposite direction, off towards the other edge of town, where the stable is, and out beyond it, in the dark, sits a squat wooden shack, hardly visible apart from the lantern outside.

He goes to it, trying to ignore the scent of horse shit, and the rotting garbage of the town which is so close. The door is thin, his knock makes it tremble.

"I've got a rifle in here, don't think I won't take your fucking head off." Comes the less than encouraging reply.

Castiel wonders if perhaps he was mistaken, what if this is not the place he assumed it to be, the place he heard about in a whisper from one of the many fallen soldiers he'd cared for, right up until the final attack?

He does as he was told by that boy, takes a dollar from his pocket and pushes it under the door.

After a pause long enough to assure him that he's just shoved hard earned money into the home of a derelict, the door opened, revealing a tall, broad man, mostly hidden in the shadow of the room.

"Get in,"

Castiel slides past him, and the man takes down the lantern outside and brings it in, setting it on a rough little table made of a sawn off log.

In its grubby-gold light, Castiel sees that the man is entirely naked, much like the interior of the shack. He's well built, muscular, and seems mostly clean, even if his bare feet are filthy.

Most cribs at least had bedsteads, ticks, a lamp, but here was just a table, a heap of blankets on the dirt floor, and a sticky looking jar beside the lamp.

The man has the dollar in his hand, checks it, and goes to the blankets, pulls out a pair of much patched pants and slips the money in to the pocket, takes out a small tin, tossing the pants and an equally worn shirt into the opposite corner.

"You don't have a rifle."

"I don't need one," he sits down on the blanket, opens the tin up and rolls a smoke, beckons Castiel over. "Take your clothes off."

Castiel is not familiar with whores, this being his first time, but he's pretty confident that they are not usually the ones giving the orders. Still, he undoes his shirt and slips it off with his coat, his hands pause at the fastening of his pants.

The man raises an eyebrow and observes him with mildly amused green eyes. "Those've gotta come off too."

"I know...I just..."

The amusement changes into something softer, like smoke drifting between them. He puts the cigarette aside.

"You're not the first boy I've had from the war."

That is most probably true. Castiel takes a breath, then undoes and steps out of his pants. A moment later he sits down beside Dean, and he undoes his leg, and sets it to one side. The stump, pale and rounded, neat, despite the damage done, is incredibly noticeable in the dim light, the skin there is so pale. The other man's tanned hand reaches out and touches it.

"You a soldier then?"

"Surgeon."

The stroking fingers are warm and pleasant, they chase away the ache he still feels in his missing leg. After the last battle, outside Maryland, he'd cut and stitched and amputated for three days without stopping for sleep, food, or water. In the bowels of an old church he'd strapped one man after another to his table, their screams only stopping when they passed out or died. Legs, arms, fingers, all amputated, taken away to be dumped beside the church. Eyes smashed by musket balls, blood flowing from mouths, chests, ears.

Afterwards, when he was dragged away by an apprentice to regain his strength under a tree outside, that was when the attack came. Exhausted and numbed with horror, it had taken him minutes to realise that his leg was gone, pounded into splinters and meat by a shot from the canon atop the church – their own canon, his own men.

"What's your name, surgeon?"

"Castiel."

"Dean."

The hand slides higher, fingers bluntly exploring his groin, rolling his balls in his dry palm, giving his cock a light tug.

"And what is that dollar going to get for you tonight?"

The warm hand travels over his stomach and up his chest, the fingers pausing to roll his nipple between them, sliding up to rest against his neck, his pulse ticking against Dean's rough palm.

He doesn't want to say it, it's so hard, always has been, to put this desire into words. But he puts his hand over Dean's, leans back, and feels the other man's body following his as he lays down on the old blankets.

Dean's body covers his, Castiel's knee bent to keep his leg out of the way. Dean's skin is rough in places, scars or hard use Castiel can't tell, the hair on his is close and fine, he smells like sweat and dirt and other men. Castiel kisses him, one hand keeping Dean's mouth close, the other sliding down his back, feeling muscles under rounded flesh, the dip of his spine, the crease under his buttock. He must drive men crazy, Castiel knows, that curved ass and lips that are soft, despite the rest of him being so coarse.

They don't talk. Castiel is happy for Dean to do whatever he sees fit, and Dean seems to have taken the reins firmly in hand. He kisses Castiel breathless, until both their chests are heaving for the stale air of the shack, nips his way down Castiel's throat, sending panicked, hot prickles over Castiel's skin. A hint of teeth against his nipple has him crying out, arching off of the dirt because he wants to be touched, and it's been so long, and when Dean's hand slips between his legs, under him gives a long, firm stroke to his ass, balls, squeezes his cock, he shudders and moans and opens himself, leg wide.

Dean licks and sucks between his legs, kneads the underside of his head with his thumbs, drawing out a bead of slick, licks it away, and takes him into his mouth. One hand under him, rubbing, teasing, and Castiel sucks in air tries to keep his chest from bursting, moans without shame, because shame is for later - for after.

Dean shifts away for a moment, brings back the sticky jar of grease and scoops out a palmful, coating his fingers, one arm goes around Castiel's thigh as he settles onto his belly to work him open. Dean kisses his thigh, the crease of his groin, licks him and breaths his hot breath onto him as his fingers circle and stroke and press, leaving Castiel aching and panting as they skate away. Finally one slips inside of him, and his groan is so deep that Dean chuckles.

"Not a boy, my mistake," and crooks his finger, strokes and swirls it until he can add another.

Castiel can barely breathe by the time Dean had four fingers inside of him, the burn and the uncomfortable urge to push against them has become the desire for more, he can feel his body, open, wet and desperate for further ownership.

He realises that he's whimpering, bites down to keep the noises to a minimum.

Dean slides over him, sweat making his body shine slightly in the lamplight, his perfect mouth reddened and plump from the soft, sucking kisses he's been teasing Castiel with.

"You can make noise, no one out there'll care to hear you, besides, they're all too busy with their own whores."

Castiel runs his hands over Dean's back, feeling the sweat, the shift of his tensed muscles. Dean is breathing hard, and Castiel realises that so far he's been untouched. Is it some kind of bargain, within this transaction that he should touch Dean, make him feel and pant and come apart?

As Dean sinks into him, he loses the thread of that thought, just feels the tensing, and the giving way. He's surprised by his own silence, and by the strength of Dean's reaction, the way his face closes down, almost in pain, crinkling with effort and a deep frown, then smoothing out as his head tips back, teeth gritted and lips going thin in vicious pleasure.

Castiel pulls him down, so they're chest to chest, kisses the animal from Dean's mouth, making him human again. They can't move quickly, but he's deep inside him and Castiel lets out a soft moan with every move Dean makes, feeling himself losing it. It's been too long, he won't last, but somehow he clings to the edge, moans and begs and pants as Dean fucks him, digs his nails into his back, lifts himself with his good leg, trying to get a better position, trying to fall over that edge.

Dean's hands are flat to the dirt, holding him up, and he moves intensely, with his full strength, even though Castiel can feel the tremors going through him, hear the catch to his breathing, feel the irregularity growing in his thrusts. Suddenly, Dean pitches forward, forehead pressed to Castiel's sucking in air in an almost-groan, and Castiel feels him twitch and spend, pushing the heated mess into him with each shallow, shaking thrust.

Stunned, burning up with need, Castiel lies still as Dean slowly gathers himself, sliding his loose limbs away, lying on the blanket between his legs and licking at the stickiness running over his skin. Dean makes a soft sound in his throat, almost of hunger, and Castiel feels his damp cock, so close, twitch against his stomach.

He can't keep the cries inside of him, they fly free, and his legs shake as Dean avoids touching his cock, focusing instead on stroking between his legs with his tongue. It's almost impossible for Castiel to catch his breath, and he's never felt both more, and less like a man than he does spread out on that blanket.

When Dean picks him up, and puts him astride his lap, it's entirely without Castiel's aid, his body is too strung out to be any use. He's been thinking of his release since he started riding, almost a day ago, and to have it staved off again and again, snatched from him the very moment it felt inevitable, is too much.

Dean's hand holds him at the small of his back, hot and heavy on his sweating skin, the other is splayed at the top of his spine, steadying him as he thrusts into him, arousal renewed. Castiel lets his head roll back and groans, shifting as much as he can, wishing he had his leg back, just so he could ride the man beneath him. He can't even remember the last time he was fortunate enough to have someone between his legs.

Dean's hand takes his hip on his crippled side, lifting a little.

"I'm not doing all the work for you," he pants, "fuck, move already."

Castiel wraps his arms around Dean's back, lifts with his leg as Dean takes some of his weight. The feeling is indescribable. Not just the thick cock inside of him, but the way his body clenches as he rides, the delicious strain in his back and thigh, the knowledge that he's going to feel this on the long ride home.

Dean bucks up furiously, but quickly grows tired, he has already come one, probably more, since sundown, and Castiel is quickly exhausted by the effort expended. They rock together, and each connecting of their flesh draws a helpless little moan from Castiel's mouth, Dean pants against his neck, and when Castiel comes, it's less like a punch to his insides, and more like a long, helpless series of deep kisses, Dean's mouth doesn't leave his, and Castiel swallows his cry as, minutes later he shudders and comes again, producing only a small lick of heat, and dragging them both to the ground.

He can hear Dean panting, as he tries to catch his own breath. The floor is not very comfortable, and his leg is complaining, as he moves to try and find a more agreeable position, Dean catches hold of him and lays him day, head on his chest. It's sticky and trembling as he sucks down air, but hearing his heart and feeling his heat is worth the scent of sweat.

Dean's hand runs sleepily through his hair, and after a while Castiel hears the scrape of a match, and smells the smoke of Dean's cigarette. He takes a drag on it himself.

"My brother was outside Maryland," Dean says, casually.

"I'm sorry."

"He lived. Took three shots to the chest, it's a miracle he did live...I guess you weren't the only surgeon working out there."

"I wasn't."

"'Course, he was fighting for the confederacy."

Castiel passes the cigarette back. Too many fine and not so fine men were lost in the war.

"He was captured, a union doc patched him up, saved him." Dean grinds the smoke into the dirt and rolls them over, so he can observe Castiel calmly. "On the off chance it was you, you did a great thing. And, even if it wasn't...there's plenty of men like him as owe you their lives."

Castiel avoids his eyes. "Not as many as you'd think."

"But enough."

Dean disentangled them, stretched, and went to recover his pants, stepping into them and checing the lantern on his way back.

"You know why I built this place?"

"Why?"

"Men like you. I guess, like us. It doesn't really matter how many lives you saved, or how many I ended to serve my home, doesn't matter how many slaves I owned, or how many miles you marched for Lincoln...we're still not on the right side. We'll always be on our own."

Castiel looks at the dirt floor, contemplating. "That's why I bought my own farm, I could hardly stay where my family were...for all I know, they know all about me by now."

"Must be nice having a place of your own."

Castiel shugs. "Where is it you live, if you don't mind me asking?"

Dean gestures to the left wall, "Ways over there, got a line shack that was my fathers, after he moved out here, he wasn't overly fond of the confederates, we disagreed strongly on that. Sometimes I think Sam only came to war with me to piss the old man off."

"Perhaps I'll see you again, if you're staying." He felt pathetic for saying it, Dean was a whore after all, hardly honest. He was just charming himself another dollar, some way down the line.

"Maybe," Dean's face betrayed nothing, "providing the men out there don't start objecting to my presence."

Castiel gathers his things and with the smile on Dean's face etched into his memory, he reclaims his horse and begins the ride home. He's sore, satisfied, but hollow and ashamed. It was always the way it was, after he'd been with a man, even one like himself. It was the loneliness of his life outside of the fleeting touch they could offer.

His farmhouse is dark when he reaches it at evening the next day. He puts the horse in its stall, gives it some hay, then fairly collapses onto his bed, without removing his clothes or washing. He sleeps for maybe eight hours, gets up, goes about his chores, makes himself something to eat and tries to calculate how long it will be before he's strong enough to handle the farm alone, even with his leg. Could he manage the plough? He thinks so, but, his bravado won't help him if he goes down somewhere on his acreage, unable to get help.

Night comes again, and he's just about to settle down for the night when someone bangs on his door.

With his peacemaker in hand he opens it and finds himself face to face with a long haired, tall man about twenty, wearing a dirty shirt and carrying another man, his arm around his waist.

"You Castiel, the surgeon?"

"What..."

"It's my brother, they shot him."

Castiel takes some of the other man's weight, tilts his head back and sees Dean's familiar mouth and long lashes, slightly disfigured by the growing bruises on his jaw and temple.

"He made me bring him out here, please help him."

"Sam?"

The tall man nods, startled.

"Bring him in, and I'll take a look."

He'd promised himself he'd never do again what had been done to him. That he'd never take a saw to bone, slice the flesh into a flap and sew it closed over a stump. But the wound was deep, the elbow smashed, and already festering from the long ride to his door.

He gave the forearm to Sam to bury in the yard.

Bathing Dean's unconscious face, he hoped that he would forgive him when he woke.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sam?"

Dean opens blurry eyes and tries to sit up, but the weight of blankets and sleep on him is too much, all he can do is tip his aching head and squeeze his eyes shut as the room is twirled violently around him.

"I'm here." There's warmth in the bed next to him, and when he opens his eyes he sees Sam's sleepy, anxious face over his. That's when he notices the smell of the place, different to the line shack, the fact that for Sam to be in bed with him, it has to be a bed twice the size of their little cots in the shack.

"Where are we?" He shifts closer to Sam, trying to reassure himself that the yelling and gun shots he remembers haven't hurt him.

"Castiel's farm, the surgeon?"

He remembers. Pain, and a fear and knowing that there was only one person close by who would help him. If you call a day's ride close.

"I'm thirsty."

I tin mug of water appears at the edge of his vision, held in the steady palm of Castiel himself. He's wearing a crumpled shirt, the same one he had on when Dean last saw him. How long ago was that? He tries to sit up, but can't quite lever himself. In the end Sam's arms slip around him, and Castiel helps to lift him upright.

He gulps water, and when he's done he asks, "How long have I been here?"

"Four days," Castiel tells him, "you've woken a few times but...you had a fever."

His stomach is a growling cave. Four days, and he was already hungry when he'd let Cas into the crib.

"Sam are you OK?"

"I'm fine, Castiel's been taking care of you, and me."

"Thanks," Dean tries to gauge from the atmosphere around him just how much Castiel has been 'taking care' of his little brother. Sam nudges him. "I've been sleeping right here, Castiel's been on the floor."

"OK, I trust him," Dean doesn't know how far he trusts him exactly, but enough, for now. "Where was I hit?"

He doesn't miss the look that passes between them. "What?"

"You took a shot to your elbow...it would have been difficult enough to patch up but, the ride out here in the heat did you no favours." Castiel touched his shoulder gently. "It was mortified, when you got here. I'm afraid I couldn't save it."

Dean stares at him dumbly for a moment, then tries to drag his arms out from under the blankets, one appears, and he tears the covers away to find his right arm, his dominant arm, shorn off at the elbow.

"Fuck!" It bursts out and rings off of the walls. Sam steadies him, and Castiel takes a hasty step backwards.

"He tried Dean, it's not his fault," Sam is saying, tripping over his words, "we'll be able to get by, I'm so sorry."

He just keeps looking at what's left of his arm, it's such a strange thing without the rest of his forearm and hand attached, an odd shape, bulky with bandage. He reaches with his good hand and touches the edge of the clean linen. "Oh my God." It feels like his arm, it is his arm, but his brain is screaming at him that this is all a mistake, because of course he still has his arm, his hand.

"What the hell did you do to me?"

Sam grabs for his shoulder but Dean twists away, feet hitting the floor and blankets thrown off before he realises that he's naked. A shiver goes through him, and his legs give out. Castiel grabs him, lowers him back to the bed, where Sam pulls him back under the blankets. He's shivering too hard to do anything more than curse.

Sam holds on to him tightly, and after a while Dean lets him lay him back down and tuck up against him.

"I'm very sorry," Castiel says softly, his voice is thick, "if there was anything else I could've done...I never wanted to take another limb."

Dean closes his eyes. "If I ever see those men again, I am going to kill them, even if you took my good hand." He blinks his eyes open and shakes his head. "Sam, get him out of here."

Sam doesn't move, but Castiel disappears and Dean turns over, buries his face against Sam's neck. "I thought they'd killed you."

"No, they were too drunk to know I was there," Sam sighs, "don't be mad at Castiel, he's spent the last few days taking care of you."

"He cut off my fucking arm."

"If he hadn't, you'd be dead."

Dean's not stupid, he knows that. Just like he knows someone must have been washing him, cleaning him up and changing his sheets the past few days. The hell is he going to make nice with a guy who's cut his arm off and cleared up his shit. He can't even look him in the eye.

"He meant it, about not wanting to take the arm," Sam says softly, though Castiel isn't in the house anymore, "he's been drinking ever since you got well enough to be left with me. He woke up shouting about some canon last night."

Dean closes his eyes. He'd forgotten about Cas's leg.

His stomach gives a loud growl.

"I'll get you something," Sam says gently, inching off the bed, "and Dean...whatever you've done, I mean, however you know him? He hasn't laid a finger on me. He hasn't even looked at me, he's been so busy with you."

Dean knows that as well. Knows that guys like him don't always eye up boys like Sam, that Cas's have to be a sick fuck to be putting hands on the little brother of a dying whore.

"Look...I'll talk to him, get him back in here in a while."

"Alright," Sam goes over to the stove at the corner of Dean's field of vision, messes with a big pot of broth. Sam can't cook more than hot water, so someone else has clearly been cooking up a storm, because Sam brings soup and cornbread and a piece of fried pork with apple sauce.

Dean struggles to sit upright, and then the fight to eat one-handed starts. He never realised just how clumsy he is with his left. In the end, to his intense frustration, Sam steps in and takes over the scooping and transporting of the soup. He also cuts up the pork. The rest Dean manages alone.

A little voice at the back of his head is telling him that at least he's alive, at least Sam's safe and well cared for. At least it wasn't his damn leg.

He thinks of Castiel. He knows the kinds of things that happened in the war. He was there. Eyes punched out with lead balls, those things could rip your stomach open, smash your bones out from under you. Then there were the bayonets, canon, and the stuff that the enemy didn't have to throw at you – typhoid from corpses left to rot in wells, biting parasites, dysentery.

He'd taken more than his share of men to the surgeons after a battle, seen those desperate hollow eyed men try to put boys as young as seventeen back together with only stitches and a saw. How they'd run out of ether and chlorophorm, and out of whisky, 'till the only anaesthetic was a pair of strong arms to hold you down 'till you passed out from pain.

And Castiel had seen it. He'd lived it for God knew how many weeks? How many months?

"Go get Castiel," Dean says roughly, once Sam's taken the dishes away. "I want to talk to him, alone. Go make yourself useful."

Sam nods, used to his brother being a bossy ass, and goes off. After a while Castiel comes in, a v of sweat on his shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the smell of fresh chopped wood all over him. There's a half empty flask of whisky in his hand, and he offers it to him. Dean takes a swallow, winces, and leans back on his pillows.

"I appreciate what you've done for him. For me too."

Castiel frowns down at his bottle, doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry I...look, you took my arm. That's the end of everything for me and him, alright? But I shouldn't've cussed you out, and...I shouldn't have forgotten your leg. I know you get it."

"I really don't." Castiel sighs, takes a swallow of liquor. "You think I'm not still angry at the bastard that cut my leg off. I'm a surgeon, I know there was no other way...but I still blame him. Because he cut it off."

"I didn't feel you do my arm."

"Ether."

Dean looks at the lines of pain etched into Castiel's face. "Guessing you didn't get any ether."

Castiel makes a strangled wheeze that Dean realises was supposed to be a laugh. "No."

"You get anything?"

"Piece of rope to bite on."

"Fuck." He takes the bottle when it's offered.

"Well, you'll still be able to do that," Castiel says dryly.

"Like anyone wants a one armed whore...especially now I can't go back to town," he has a horrible thought, "when Sam showed up with me, how much stuff did he have?"

"Just you and the horse."

"Oh shit," Dean closes his eyes, "and we can't go back for any of it. Clothes, my gun, money...fuck."

"I could go."

"They'd kill you soon as they saw you were helping us."

"In that case, I can get you both clothes, a gun...money would be hard, but if you'll stay 'till I can get a harvest in..."

Dean looks at him, hard. "You don't owe us anything."

"I took your fucking arm," Castiel reminds him, imitating his tone, "I'm not sending you out to die, without a cent to keep you and your brother clothed or fed over winter."

In a battle of wills, a well man will win every time. But Dean reckoned he could bide his time until he was well enough to get out of Castiel's hair. No matter how good he'd been to Sam, there was no way he'd force the surgeon to support them.


	3. Chapter 3

It gets to be night again far sooner than Dean would have thought; clearly he'd already slept half the day away.

Sam gets into bed after gulping down soup and a chunk of bread. Dean drinks his own soup from a cup with his left hand, and is slightly comforted by the fact that he can manage it. He also gains the privilege of going outside to piss in the privacy of the outhouse, not that he's going to forget the fact that his brother and Castiel have been cleaning up after him any time soon.

When he gets back, Sam is already out like a snuffed candle, and Castiel is laying blankets out on the floor.

Dean stretches. "Guess he was tired out."

"He's been watching you for the best part of three days," Castiel reminds him gently, "he was very worried."

"As if I'd let a pack of drunks get rid of me," Dean frowns, looking down at his brother, "no, he needs me too much."

He turns to find Castiel looking at him sadly, "if anything had happened, I would have kept him on."

"Thanks." Dean looks down, clenches his hand, reassuring himself that it's still there. "About us...before..."

"I didn't say anything to him, and I don't expect it to happen again," Castiel says lightly, "that was business, I know that."

It feels like a hand has tightened around his heart, and Dean tries to ignore it. He does not have feelings for johns, no matter how pretty, no matter how kind. They're work. They're bread on the table and money in his pocket, and, most importantly, they don't give a damn about him or Sam. They act like it, just like when they put orders in at the store they ask after the health of the owner's wife – it's a way for them to feel less awkward about handing over money. They say things about his body, nice things, and they touch him gently, but it's only because they're putting down their coins for his ass.

Still, Castiel has been kinder than he had to be.

"I'll pay you back, for taking care of us," Dean says, "I only meant that...Sam knows what I do for us, but...he's never met any of them, not that he knows of anyway."

Castiel nods. "Then I won't say anything. But, you don't have to pay me."

"I don't have the money but...I can do some work around here..." he clenches his hand again, feels the emptiness at his right side. "Or...I mean...we could..."

Castiel shakes his head. "No. No I don't think that'll be necessary."

Dean flinches a little, mostly internally. So this is what's left for him now. No one wants to fuck a one armed whore with a kid brother and only the shirt on his back.

He doesn't let it show on his face but Castiel leaves the blankets and puts his hand on Dean's arm. "I only meant that I wouldn't take that from you, not for nothing...it would be...it wouldn't be fair."

"But it's fair if you give me a dollar?" Dean jokes, without much mirth.

"It's fair if I give you something I wouldn't give you otherwise, as a trade," Castiel says simply, "or at least that's how I see it. I've never been comfortable with the workings of it but...there's not really much else for me."

Dean swallows. "You'd have done this anyway? For me, and Sam."

Castiel frowns as if Dean is speaking some kind of foreign language. "Of course. I was lucky, that I was able to do something for you – if I hadn't been able to keep you alive, that would have been something for me to bear."

Looking him in the face, Dean has the uncomfortable feeling that he's being valued, and Castiel sees him as much more than a dollar. It's been a long time since he was more than a dollar to anyone – hell, some of the bastards haggled, and he let them.

"It uh...gets cold around here at night." Dean says. "You should sleep with us. There's room."

Castiel looks at him, really looks at him, and for a moment Dean gets the sense that he's being looked in to.

"Alright. Thank you."

Dean shrugs. "It's your bed."

He gets in beside Sam, lies on his back looking up at the ceiling. He feels the dip in the mattress, the shift in the blankets as Castiel lies down, facing away from him, hears his quiet exhalation as he tries to relax himself for sleep.

It's probably because both Sam and the surgeon are so tired from taking care of him that they sleep so soundly. Dean however has had a good few days of being unconscious, and as he fails to fall into sleep, he lets his mind wander.

Castiel lives alone, on a farm that, judging from his brief look at it when he went to the outhouse, has to be at least thirty acres. Too much for one man, one who has, too look at him, never farmed by himself. Maybe that's how he can pay him back, show him how to farm, maybe help out once he's figured out how to get by with only one arm. Sam's a hard worker, decent at most jobs.

He almost jumps when Castiel turns over and rests against his side, his breath warm and smelling of the minted salt he'd brushed his teeth with. Dean leans to one side a little, allowing Castiel's head to rest on his shoulder, his hair brushing his skin. Maybe he was wrong about him being just another john, maybe he could be a decent guy, another man like himself, chewed up by the war, never belonging anywhere to begin with.

He listens to Sam snoring quietly. His brother's normal, there's that to be grateful for. Someday, if Dean can get some money together, Sam could marry well, maybe even get some more schooling and become a banker or a clerk. Maybe he could be a pharmacist, hell, so long as he's almost dreaming, Sam could be a lawyer some day. Have a wife and kids and a house with thick walls and fancy couches and a china hutch and all that clutter.

And Dean well...he'll be OK. He always is.

Castiel whimpers slightly in his sleep, moves closer and Dean feels fingers catch at the hand on the opposite side of him to where Cas is lying.

"Don't worry, no copper heads out tonight." He mutters, squeezing Castiel's hand, "well, just me and...I've only got one arm."

He turns his head and finds Castiel's eyes on him, reflecting the dim moonlight filtering through the shutters.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Got woken up," Castiel mutters, still drowsy. "Dreaming about those confederates."

"Can't blame you, they are lookers."

Castiel huffs a soft laugh, and Dean, emboldened, rolls over and little and puts an arm around him. It so good to be in a soft bed, with a man next to him - a feeling he never thought he'd have. Even if he's a little chilled with the impermanence of it, the fact that Castiel doesn't really want him, it's still a nice feeling.

"Go to sleep," he mutters against Castiel's ear. "If the south rises, I'll wake you."

Castiel huffs again sleepily. "Promise?"

"You'll probably notice," Dean mutters, but Castiel is already asleep.


End file.
